Hot Blooded Page 20

  "So you're sorry that you aren't still married to Samantha."

  The eyes narrowed, as if he expected a trap. "I just said I was sorry things didn't work out for us."

  Bentz didn't believe it. Not for a second. This guy was too phony. Too into himself. The man's fingernails looked as if they'd been professionally manicured, his thick hair neat and recently trimmed, not an ounce of fat on his frame. The narrow, full-length mirror hanging near the coatrack said it all.

  Bentz asked a few more questions, didn't get a good hit off the guy, then got Leeds's back up when he pried into the professor's personal life, asking where he'd been on the nights that "John" had called the radio station.

  "Come on, Detective. Don't tell me you think I'm involved." His eyebrows lifted. "If you presume to think that I had anything to do with what's happening with Samantha, guess again, Detective. I wish her no harm. Don't even care that she's back here in New Orleans."

  He leaned over the desk, all personal, as if they were buddies. "Look, I admired her as a student, fell in love with her. She has charm. Charisma, for lack of a better word. And she was certainly one of my brightest students."

  "Because she got involved with you?"

  A muscle ticked near Leeds's eye. "Because of her innate intelligence and inquisitive mind. That's what attracted me to her, but, okay, shoot me for being a red-blooded male as I'd be a liar if I didn't admit I thought she was gorgeous and that had a lot to do with my attraction." His smile was nearly wistful. And phony as a whore's whisper of sweet nothings. An act. "It was over between Samantha and me a long time ago. I'm sure she's told you as much. It's basically by coincidence that we're in the same city again."

  "If you say so."

  "I do." His eyes were razor-sharp again. "I've never moved," he pointed out. "I'm still with the same university. Samantha and I had separated when she took that job in Houston. I didn't want her to leave and when she did, well, the marriage was doomed."

  "So you got involved with another one of your students."

  Leeds's grin was unabashed. "Guilty as charged."

  They talked a few more minutes. Bentz learned nothing more but had the distinct feeling that though Dr. Leeds seemed irritated to have his phone call interrupted and his office hours filled up with the questioning, the professor enjoyed being a part of the investigation, that he found it amusing to be interviewed by the police. His answers were clear, but there was an edge of condescension in his voice; he, of the high IQ, disdained others not as naturally intelligent as he.

  Which was pure, unadulterated bullshit.

  As Leeds walked him out of the office and into the revered halls of the university, he said, "Drop in any time, Officer. If I can be of help, any help at all, just let me know."

  More bullshit. The guy was playing games.

  Bentz walked outside to the oppressive heat. Storm clouds had rolled in, blocking the sun, threatening rain. The air was thick as Bentz strode through the parking lot and wondered how the hell a classy woman like the radio-doc could have ever been married to a bastard like Jeremy Leeds Ph.D, or no Ph.D. It seemed impossible.

  But then he'd never been one to figure out the male/female attraction game. His own ill-fated marriage was proof enough of that.

  Sliding into the driver's seat, he flipped down the visor where his emergency pack of Camels was tucked. He punched in the lighter and jabbed a cigarette between his teeth as he nosed his cruiser toward the St. Charles exit of the parking lot. Kids were playing in the park across the avenue, a streetcar, windows open, ferried the curious sightseers and bored locals through the Garden District. The lighter popped. Bentz, waiting for the streetcar to pass and the traffic to thin, fired up his cigarette and drew in a deep lungful of smoke. Nicotine slipped easily into his bloodstream as passengers got off the trolley—a couple of black kids with backpacks and CD players, an elderly man in a plaid cap and a tall, dark-haired guy with wraparound sunglasses. From behind his shades he glanced in Bentz's direction, then dashed through traffic to Audubon Park and past the group of kids kicking a ball around.

  There was something about the guy that bothered Rick, though he couldn't put his finger on it. So the commuter didn't like cops. That wasn't a big deal. It wasn't even uncommon. Bentz followed the guy with his eyes, smoke fogging the inside of the windshield. He watched as the man jogged across the clipped grass to the trees and lagoon beyond. The streetcar started up again, gaining speed. Bentz turned on his siren, cut across traffic and the double tracks in the median, turning toward the business district. At the sound of the siren, the jogger glanced over his shoulder, but didn't increase his pace, just disappeared into the trees.

  Probably a paranoid druggie with an ounce of weed on him.

  Nothing more.

  Flipping off his siren, Bentz pushed the jogger from his mind as he maneuvered through heavy traffic, all the while considering the fragments of the Samantha Leeds case. Nothing seemed to fit.

  Who the hell was John?

  How was he involved with Annie Seger?

  Why was a woman pretending to be a girl nine years dead?

  Was there a connection between what was happening at the radio station and the murders being committed in the French Quarter—or was it just coincidence? Bentz had already talked to the Feds, even phoned Norm Stowell, a man he'd worked with in LA who'd once been a profiler at Quantico when he'd worked for the FBI. Stowell's instincts had proven to be right-on more than once. Bentz trusted Stowell's opinion, more than he did that of the kid who'd been assigned to the case. Stowell had promised to look over the information Bentz had faxed and get back to him.

  Bentz took another long drag as he braked for a traffic light near Lafayette Square. Smoking helped him concentrate, and God knew he needed all the concentration he could dredge up.

  He thought of Samantha. Any man could fall for her, that much was certain. But why would she hook up and marry a snake like Leeds? And what about that ex-boyfriend of hers, David Ross, in Houston. How did he figure in? The light changed and he stepped on the accelerator. Then there was Ty Wheeler, a man Bentz felt intuitively wasn't on the up-and-up. Something about that guy bothered him. Samantha Leeds's taste in men left a lot to be desired. Who could explain it?

  He knew from his own experience that rational thought didn't play much of a role when lust or love was involved. Unfortunately most people, himself included, had a way of mixing up the two emotions.

  And that usually spelled disaster.

  Samantha Leeds's love life was a prime example.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam tossed her copy of Paradise Lost to one side of her desk. She'd spent the past two hours in the den and had managed to skim most of the text, but decided that she'd been wrong. Her belief that "John," whoever he was, had made reference to the work hadn't panned out. At least she couldn't find any link. A headache was beginning to form behind her eyes as she snapped on the desk lamp. Outside, evening was stretching across the lake and her yard, shadows deepening, the twinkle of the first star visible.

  So who was John? She picked up a pen and twirled it between two fingers. What did he want? To scare her? Was it all just a game to him? Or was it something deeper, did he actually mean her bodily harm? She was reaching for a text on the psychology of stalkers when the phone rang so loudly she jumped.

  She caught the receiver on the second ring. "Hello?" she said, but didn't expect an answer. Twice earlier she'd answered, and no one had responded. She'd been jumpy ever since, especially since today was Thursday, Annie Seger's birthday.

  "Hi, Sam," a cheery voice called.

  "Corky!" It was so good to hear her friend's voice. Leaning back in her chair, Samantha smiled as she stared out the window and watched a squirrel leap from one thick branch of an oak tree to another. "What's up?"

  "I thought I'd check in on you. My mom called yesterday from LA. She'd run into your dad at the country club and he said you'd been having some trouble, that you'd hurt your leg in Mexico a
nd now there was some kind of creep stalking you or something."

  "Good news travels fast."

  "Like the speed of lightning when my mom hears it. What's going on?"

  Sam sighed, imagining her friend's face and wishing Corky lived closer. "It's a long story."

  "I've got some time to kill, so talk."

  "Remember, you asked." Sam brought Corky up to date, telling her about John, Annie, the phone calls, the mutilated picture.

  "Mother of God, Sam, and the girl's birthday is today?" Corky asked, and Sam imagined the concern in her friend's eyes.

  "She would have been twenty-five."

  "Maybe you should hire a bodyguard."

  "It's been suggested," Sam said dryly. "As well as upgrading my cat for a pit bull."

  "How about moving in with David?"

  Sam sighed through her nose and glanced at the framed photograph of David still sitting on her desk near the answering machine. Handsome, yes. Husband material—no. "Even if David lived in New Orleans, it wouldn't happen." To prove her point to herself, she grabbed the damned picture of David from the surface of her desk and shoved it into the bottom drawer of the desk. "It's over."

  "But you went to Mexico with him."

  "I met him there and it turned out to be a nightmare. After everything, I'll be lucky if David and I end up friends. The odd thing about it is that police even think he might have something to do with the calls I've been getting."

  "David Ross?" Corky laughed. "No way. Obviously they don't know the guy."

  "And he's in Houston."

  "Okay, so not David. How about someone else? Come on, Sam. Don't you have some big, strong friend who could move in for a while?"

  Ty Wheeler's image came quickly to mind. "No. Besides, I don't need a man to—"

  "What about Pete?"

  Sam glanced at the photograph of her graduation, her parents and her brother. "You're kidding, right? No one's seen Pete in years."

  "I have. I ran into him the other day."

  "What?" She couldn't believe her ears. "You're talking about my brother?"

  "Yes."

  "But… but…" A dozen emotions ripped through her and tears sprang to her eyes. Until that moment she didn't realize that she'd thought it a very real possibility that he'd been dead. "I'm sorry, Corky, but this is huge. He doesn't even bother to call on Christmas or Dad's birthday… is he okay?"

  "Looked fit as the proverbial fiddle."

  "So why hasn't he called, where has he been, what's he doing?"

  "Hey, whoa. Slow down. One question at a time," Corky said, and Sam forced herself to rein in her galloping emotions.

  "Okay, you're right," she said. "Let's start over. Where did you see Pete?"

  "Here in Atlanta at a bar. Last weekend. I couldn't believe it."

  Me, neither. Sam's chest tightened. "How was he?"

  "Good, he looked good. But then he always looked good. Even when he was using." There was a pause, and Sam picked up the snapshot of her family. Peter, taller than the rest of the family, seeming aloof and disinterested in his black leather and dark glasses. You insensitive bastard, she thought unkindly. How many times had her father called and asked about him. A hundred? Two?

  "He seemed to have cleaned up his act," Corky offered. "But he didn't leave me with a number or even tell me how to reach him. I told him he should call you, and he said he'd think of it."

  "Kind of him," Sam said.

  "Hey… give him a break. I don't think his life has been all that wonderful."

  "You always had a crush on him," Sam accused.

  "Yeah, I did. Past tense. But who wouldn't? He's still drop-dead gorgeous."

  "If you say so."

  "I do, but okay, I'll admit it. I'm an incurable romantic."

  "And always getting yourself into trouble."

  Corky laughed. "Yeah, I suppose. Especially with good-looking men." She sighed loudly. "If it wasn't long-distance, I'd be calling in to your show all the time, begging you for advice with my love life."

  "Sure you would," Sam said, but laughed. God, she missed Corky. And in some ways, she missed her brother.

  "Unlike you, I haven't given up on love."

  "Unlike me you're not a realist," Sam countered, as Charon hopped up on her lap and began to purr.

  "Pete asked about you, Sam."

  "Did he?" A dozen emotions rifled through her, none of them particularly good. Samantha still had issues with her brother. Big ones. "What about Dad? Did Pete ask about him? You know, Dad hasn't heard from him in years."

  "Well, no, he didn't bring up your father."

  "It figures." Sam felt a stab of disappointment which was totally uncalled-for. Why in the world was she ever-hopeful that her brother would develop some conscience about family ties? "So what's Pete doing?" Sam asked. "To support himself, I mean."

  "I'm not sure. He said something about working for a cell-phone company, putting up towers all around the Southeast, but I had the feeling that the job was over. He was living here, in Atlanta, but acted as if he was going to be moving… Uh-oh, I've got another call coming in, I've got to take it as I do work on commission, you know, but I wanted to tell you that I'm going to be in New Orleans in a couple of weeks. I'll call with the details as they come in. Gotta go."

  "Bye—" Before the word was out, Corky had clicked off and Sam was left with a dead line. Staring at the picture of her small family, she hung up and tried to shake off the shroud of depression that always clung to her when she thought about her brother. Or her mother.

  Deep down, though she knew it was time to let go of the old feelings, Sam still blamed Peter for taking her mother away. Picking up the snapshot, she traced the contours of her mother's face with the tip of her finger and felt the old sadness well up as it always did when she thought of her mother. It hadn't been long after the picture had been taken that Beth Matheson had been killed senselessly, in an automobile accident that could have been avoided.

  "Oh, Mom," Sam swallowed hard. It had been so long ago on that rainy night in LA when, frantic to find her son, Beth had climbed into her sedan and driven off. Not two miles down the road, she'd hydroplaned, hadn't been able to stop for a red light and been killed instantly by another driver turning in the intersection.

  All because of Pete's love affair with cocaine.

  Addiction, Sam reminded herself, trying to diffuse some of the rage that sometimes overcame her when she thought of her mother's premature death. Peter was an addict. It was a disease. Beth Matheson had been careless and had not only died herself that night, but the driver of the van that had hit her was in the hospital for six weeks.

  Water under the bridge.

  Sam replaced the photograph. She should call Corky back and try to track down Pete. For her father. For you, too, Sam. He's your only brother. You have to get over faulting him.

  But he never calls Dad. Nor me. Acts as if his family doesn't exist.

  Rather than dwell on a brother who didn't care if she thought he might be dead, Sam reached for the phone again. From memory, she dialed David's work number and was informed that he was "out for a few days."

  Wonderful. It wasn't that she wanted to talk to him, she just wanted to assure herself that he wasn't involved in any of the calls to the station or the calls here at the house. Not David, she told herself. The first call came in when you were in Mexico. He was there.

  It's not David. The police are barking up the wrong tree.

  Still, she dialed his home number, waited until the answering machine clicked on and hung up. So he wasn't in Houston. So what?

  She couldn't sit around and wonder what he was doing. He was out of her life, and she didn't have to remind herself that she wanted it that way. Things were better without. She'd never really loved him, but when she'd first met him, he'd seemed the right choice for a husband and father of the children she'd wanted.

  Thank God she'd woken up before she'd given up on love and married him because of his suitability.
"You're as bad as Corky," she muttered at herself. She turned to her computer and accessed her e-mail. Most of it didn't interest her, but she saw another electronic missive from the Boucher Center and found a note from Leanne.

  DS—

  Things aren't going great here. Mom's mad all the time and Jay won't call me back. I think I need to talk to you about something. When you have the time, call or e-mail me.

  "Oh, honey." Sam fired off a quick note, suggesting they meet for coffee, then tried Leanne's home number. It rang busy, so she couldn't leave a message. Leanne had e-mailed her before with similar missives, but Sam had the feeling the girl was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she'd call into the show tonight.

  Just like Annie Seger did?

  "Stop it," she muttered out loud. She was just anxious because it was Annie's birthday, and she'd gotten the threatening calls and notes. It had nothing to do with Leanne's plight.

  Telling herself she'd call Leanne later, Sam nudged Charon off her lap and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Inside her closet, she parted her long dresses, then bent down and opened the door to the attic hidden under the eaves. Flipping on the light switch she heard an angry hum, then saw the hornet's nest tucked into one corner of the sloped ceiling. Shiny black bodies reflected the light of the single dusty bulb as they crept over the thin paper of their home. Besides the hornets, she spied spiders skulking in cobwebs that draped from the ancient, exposed rafters. She wondered about bats, saw some droppings but no furry little winged bodies hanging upside down. The attic smelled of must and mildew—this was no place for her important papers. She'd have to build cabinets in the den or second bedroom. Gritting her teeth she crawled carefully across the rough plank flooring and glanced down at the dust… was it disturbed? The top of the boxes… it seemed to be cleaner than it should, as if someone had wiped them to look at the tags… but… She shook her head. What was wrong with her? No one had been in her attic and the boxes were relatively clean because she'd sorted through them six months ago, when she'd hauled them to the attic. She'd been in here six months ago—no one else had.